


The Sigerson Papers: Part 1 Reflections in the High Himalayas: of Pines, Falls, and Fields of Primroses

by Stavia_Scott_Grayson



Series: The Sigerson Papers [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Letters designed for Watson to read, The Sigerson Papers, What Holmes wrote as Sigerson.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:19:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stavia_Scott_Grayson/pseuds/Stavia_Scott_Grayson
Summary: "You may have heard of the explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but you little thought you were receiving news of your old friend."These are a companion piece to Since First I Saw Your Face. https://archiveofourown.org/works/8441374





	The Sigerson Papers: Part 1 Reflections in the High Himalayas: of Pines, Falls, and Fields of Primroses

**The Sigerson Papers**

**Part 1:  Reflections in the High Himalayas: Of Pines, Falls and Fields of Primroses.**

The lonely traveller in the high Himalaya cannot but find, after a while that the mountains’ immensity and grandeur reduces him to a speck of humanity amid the landscape. Even the inhabitants of that region appear to exist on sufferance. Along the track of my journey lay the poor villages of the hill folk—mud and earth huts, timbers now and then rudely carved with an axe—clinging like swallows' nests against the steeps, huddled on tiny flats half-way down a three-thousand-foot glissade; jammed into a corner between cliffs that funnelled and focused every wandering blast; or, for the sake of summer pasture, cowering down on a neck that in winter would be ten feet deep in snow. Were the mountain to shrug, they would plummet into the abyss, those houses, drop into mists and not a trace of them would remain to show that any had lived there.

I halted once at the head of a high pass that gave on the Kullu valley. In the distance, the high snows of the horizon flared windy-red above stark blue, as Kedarnath and Badrinath—kings of that wilderness—took the first sunlight. All day long they would lie like molten silver under the sun, and at evening put on their jewels again. This extraordinary phenomenon of the colouring of the snows is often referred to as Alpenglühen, although the true glow must come before either sunrise or after, from the scattering and refraction of light. On the occasion of my visit, the mountains put on a display which I have only seen bettered during a sojourn some years ago in the little Swiss town of Meiringen.

 My destination was reminiscent of that Alpine region in more ways than one. I was bound for the place where the Jogini Falls gushes from the rock, falling from an impressive gorge, there to marvel at a sight, which has no rival save, perhaps, the celebrated Grand Fall of the Reichenbach. This fall, as that, is indeed a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and clamour. I stood near the edge peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below me against the black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss. One might imagine some titanic struggle between bitter enemies taking place there: woe to any who fell, for scarce might he save himself, and of two, surely only one might be fortunate enough to live and tell his tale.

The danger of the falls does not, however, deflect the traveller from exploring the region further: be he never so disinclined towards the rhapsodies of the Aesthetic, he cannot fail to be struck by its extreme beauty. The high mountains and deep ravines, are, for the most part, clothed with the deep greens of Deodar (a type of Cedar) and Pine, their resins perfuming the pure air. Trees of many other types and stately height abound, and in the valley are orchards of Cherry, Apple and Almond, which provide  not only clouds of blossom, but wholesome sustenance to their cultivators. The mournful Willow, the trembling Aspen and silvery Poplar shade the river banks, and provide a pleasant refuge from the heat: however that black Cypress, which so abounds in Europe, is completely absent.

The air around these trees is alive with bees, of which four distinct species exist in the region, to wit Apis cerana, Apis florea, Apis dorsata and Apis dorsata laboriosa. The latter is a curious creature: found only in the more remote regions, it is of extraordinary size and can measure up to an inch and a half in length. I had heard it said that the flowers on which it feeds give its honey the curious property of inducing hallucinations: certainly when I tasted it, I found myself transported, in a memory so clear it could have been reality, back to my own city. For some moments, I appeared to myself to be walking its streets – could almost, in imagination, feel the press of my companion’s arm – before the sweetness faded, leaving a sting in the mind.

It is not surprising that there are many different species of bee for there are also many species of flora, which adorn, in brilliantly coloured swathes, the fields and terraces of the valley of the Beas (into which the Jogini Falls debouch) and the more Alpine slopes of the higher meadows. Some areas are covered in the rambling and undisciplined bushes of Rosa Damascena, and to these perfumed bushes go, as soon as the dew is dried off the petals, the women, girls, and young boys of the settlements, in order to pluck the full blown blooms in great baskets for distillation into that expensive Attar beloved by the _parfumiers_ of Grasse. It is indeed an experience to see them: as the pickers return, great baskets of roses on their heads, or carried on their backs, such a waft of scent flows with them as almost to flavour the very food one eats. I was reminded of those lines of the poet, Khayyam, which (so ably translated by Mr Edward Fitzgerald) run,

‘ _Look to the rose that blows about us, Lo, laughing, she says, into the world I blow, At once the silken tassel of my purse tear, and its treasure on the garden throw,’_

Roses are not, however, the only bloom to adorn the meadows: there are many varieties of flower to be found –Roses of crimson hue, as well as Damasks; Globe Amaranths; that impatient Balsam that uncoils a seedpod to eject its seeds if touched,  Poppies in all colours including a white, Daisies both tame and wild, the Lily, emblem of the pure at heart, and that Pansy, or Heartsease that the Englishman, Shakespeare, tells us means ‘Thoughts’. Not the least common, however, are those of the Primrose family. They flower in all shades of pink, white, purple and yellow: many with heads of tightly packed blossom, some in conical form, or loose sprays of florets depending from a central stem. There are both scented and unscented types: one, which I believe to be new to science, is like the Cowslip, or Primula veris, and Oxlip (Primula elatior) of our European meadows. For all their beauty and elegance, though, I confess I missed the humble Primrose of my native land, for small though it be and unpretentious, for me it will always bear a significance greater than its size.

I concluded my visit to this pleasant valley with a brief sojourn at the renowned temple of Vashist, about which, dear reader, I hope to inform you in my next letter. I moved higher into the Himalaya – for these deep chasms, high peaks, and shady valleys were, as yet only the foothills of that colossal range - and circumstances which tested my mettle to the utmost.

 


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